


The Goblin King

by knytkalas



Category: Rumpelstilzchen | Rumpelstiltskin (Fairy Tale)
Genre: Bondage, F/M, Fairy Tale Style, Flogging, Oral Sex, Safewords, Star-crossed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-26
Updated: 2019-05-26
Packaged: 2020-03-18 01:01:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18975679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knytkalas/pseuds/knytkalas
Summary: The Goblin King meets a pretty girl and plays a little game with her.





	The Goblin King

Unlike what you may think of me, based on what you've heard, I truly do not like to see a woman cry. This is the reason why I halted that night, when I heard the softest of sobbings. What could be amiss, thought I, as I spied the young woman in tears. She was locked inside a tower high, and she was very fair. But what stood out by far the most, was her bright and brilliant hair.  
   'Twas the blondest hair you ever saw, waves and waves of flaxen straw, like the summer's fields of grain. Yet when illuminated by her lonely lantern's light, her hair came to life with bright golden rays of its own, which rippled and gleamed in her lustrous yellow locks. Straw turned to gold on her head.  
   She was a poor peasant girl, unadorned and in simple clothing. Yet she carried herself with dignity and pride. She had about her that special princess quality, which has nothing to do with kings and lineages. To think that all princesses live in castles is a crass mistake.  
   She certainly wept in the way of princesses. She sat alone in a loft filled with yellow straw, with a spinning wheel at her side, but no thread nor wool nearby.  
   “Why are you crying?” said I.  
   She started and looked my way. If she was frightened by my demeanour she didn't show it. Instead, she dried her tears, touched her beautiful blond hair, and began to speak.  
   “It is said of me, that I can spin straw into pure gold.”  
   I considered her abandoned spinning wheel.  
   “Many things are said...”  
   “But of course I can not,” she implored. “And now I am a prisoner in this room, until all this straw is spun.”  
   I pondered this.  
   “It is done,” said I.  
   Her spinning wheel sprang to life and, all on its own, began spinning the straw into a fine thread of purest gold. The thread collected itself around a spool and rested obediently. The girl could not believe her eyes. She stared in wide-eyed wonder at my handiwork, her tears entirely forgotten. Things like this are considered marvelous in the mortal world.  
   “You have saved me,” she mumbled, awestruck.  
   “Think naught of it,” said I, and I meant it. ”It costs me nothing to make gold.”  
   She nodded, but wasn't convinced.  
   “How can I thank you,” she said, ”when I don't even know your name?"  
   “I'll give you my name, princess of mine. But you'll have to give me something in return.”  
   “Anything you ask,” said she.  
   Oh joy, a game then! My favourite form of mirth and merrymaking. Those who know me know I play like no other.  
   “Let's start with your shoes,” said I. “They are old and worn, I see, but they'll do for a first syllable at least.”  
   Without hesitation she kicked off her shoes and tossed them towards my corner. She looked so neat with her two bare feet, on the floor, in the straw, by the gold.  
   “ _Rump_ ,” said I. “That is the beginning of my name. Next I want your torn cloak. It isn't worth much, but it'll do for one syllable at least.”  
   She unclasped her cloak and discarded it.  
   “ _El_ ,” said I. “A short sound for an old cloak. Now hand me your threadbare bodice, and I will give you the next part.”  
   The bodice took a bit of unwinding, but the girl disentangled its laces and the garment soon fell apart. She freed herself from its grasp and looked me straight in the eyes as she threw her bodice across the room. I caught it in mid-air.  
   “ _Stilts_ ,” said I. “Now there's naught but one syllable left of my name. Give to me your plain dress and I will tell you.”  
   That was when, for the first time, she hesitated.  
   “I will have nothing left,” she said to me.  
   “Neither will I.”  
   She slipped a strap off her shoulder and let her dress drop to the floor. Moonlight bounced on the heaps of golden thread around us and lit her breasts and stomach from below with a warm, rich glow. She stood before me with dignity. The spot between her legs already glistened like precious gemstones.  
   “ _Kin_ ,” I said at last. “Rumpelstiltskin is my name. King of the goblins am I. Prince of the night-court.”  
   As I spoke I walked slowly around her, my own long cloak trailing behind me. I could feel how she trembled.  
   “Are you embarrassed?” I asked.  
   “Yes.”  
   “You can stop this any time you will. Simply speak my name, which I have given you, and I will vanish.”  
   She nodded. But she did not speak.  
   I raised my arms around her from behind, to caress her gleaming skin. She shivered but remained still. Up and down I brushed, across her stomach and over her breasts, gently grazing her thighs and throat with unseelie hands.  
   Of course she would speak my name eventually. A princess like her can't suffer the sight of a twilight creature for very long. Might as well cut the night short and skip ahead to the inevitable end.  
   At my silent command the spinning wheel jerked. It spun its endless golden string and suddenly shot it out with force and intention. The thread whipped through the air and captured the girl's arms and wrists. She gasped as the strings ensnared her, and whimpered when they constricted all around her. Yet she made no serious effort to escape or struggle free. How much would she take?  
   “Speak my name,” I said.  
   But she didn't.  
   So I kept the thread coming. I had it swarm around her body at great speed and lash tight around her, more and more, until she stood on tiptoe with her arms pulled over her head, and with the golden string stretched around her breasts, waist, thighs, and knees. She was trapped as if in a spider's silk embrace, a bug's hug.  
   That's when I conjured up my birch rod.  
   My signature weapon was a bundle of wicked twigs from a birch tree of my homeland. It could caress and it could sting. But it always left a warm glow behind.  
   The ties above her head forced the girl to stand upright. This left the long stretch of the back of her body not only venerable, but also eminently vulnerable. And I'm sure she knew it too, for she posed herself before me. I raised my arm and gave her a rough whack with my birch. She yelped and thrashed in her bonds.  
   “Speak my name,” I said.  
   But she didn't.  
   It is said of me, that I like to see women cry. I do not. I like to see their ass-cheeks reddened. I like to see their limbs twisted and held. Their eyes deep with disbelief and their thighs dripping with need. But I know what I am doing, and I am not out to cause harm. I am the goblin king, a threshold being. My path may skirt the edge of the underworld - but on that path stay I, always. Neither charming prince nor devouring ogre.  
   My birch struck her ass again and again. For each strike her skin got redder and redder, more and more raw, so that the sting of the next strike was even stronger than the last. The girl did not shirk away from my blows. Instead she wailed in agony with a musical voice. She certainly suffered in the way of princesses, which teaches us the true meaning of passion.  
   I kept on flogging her.  
   I am the Rumpel-Stilts, the Rattler of Sticks. My birch rod, my rattle, goes rat-at-at-tat. Say my name and I vanish. Or else I won't stop until your ass is smouldering red.  
   And hers was. It was so red, so warmly, glowingly red that it was almost as red as gold. I let go of my birch rod and listened to her relieved breathing. She had prevailed.  
   I released her arms from their upright position and allowed her to drop to her knees. She sat just so, with her hands still bound in front of her, and looked up at me with mesmerised devotion.  
   “Mouth open,” said I.  
   She opened her mouth and held it agape. Her white teeth nested inside, gleaming against her lips and the wet walls inside.  
   “Tongue out,” said I.  
   She extended her pink tongue. On its tip was a single drop of spit, like a pearly tear. She had closed her eyes, like one who expects a gift surprise. To what lengths would she follow me?  
   “Smile,” said I.  
   Her face split up in a wide smile. It was an awkward but honest puppy-dog grin, for the corners of her mouth curled up and formed a triangle with the tip of her extended tongue.  
   Interesting. A simple command shouldn't reach all the way into an internal attitude like that. A smile is a smile, and it springs from inside. It cannot be mandated.  
   I undid my silver belt buckle. I'd been in a hardened state for a long time already, and I stepped forward to make this known to her. I hovered close to her face, near enough for her to touch me, had her hands been free. As it was, though, only her breath reached across her outstretched tongue to my skin, like a warm summer's wind. Would she deign to caress my inhuman flesh?  
   “Speak my name,” said I.  
   But this she elected not to obey. Instead she licked the length of my shaft, from its root all the way up to its tip, which was almost out of her limited reach.  
   I braided my fingers into her golden hair, that marvelous, wondrous hair, which truly felt like ripe grass to touch, and in this manner I steered her head towards myself. She complied and embraced me with her lips. What a warm welcome! Bound and kneeling as she was, she had limited movement, but I held her hair and helped her along, while she did with her mouth what she was prevented from doing with her hands.  
   When I began to sense that telltale tightening in my lower abdomen I pulled out of her mouth. Before I came I needed to give her a treat in return. I lay her down on her back and raised her two joined legs into the air. Thread still entwined them, from the hinge of her hips to the tip of her toes. Her red ass-cheeks greeted me, as did her small tuft of blonde hair, now heavy with morning's sparkling dew.  
   She was yet untouched by the fae, so I had to be careful. I placed my prick gently against her opening and she immediately came. It surprised her, I think. She strained and stiffened and only the thin gold string held her together. For me to press inside her would be out of the question. A long, long time it would take before she was enchanted enough to get fucked by the prick of the gobbolin king.  
   What I could do instead, was to slide back and forth, along the surface of her, in between her tied together thighs. This I could do, and simply watch her ride out her perpetual orgasms. They seized her one upon the other like links in a chain. She had long since stopped resisting the indulgence.  
   I withdrew after some time, when I deemed she'd had enough. She was a mortal woman, after all. She panted and gasped for breath. But then she smiled and I returned to her waiting mouth. She was more than glad to take me, showing off her gratitude within her truly bottomless throat - and that is where I came at last.

Later I rested with my back in what little remained of the natural straw. The woman, now unbound, stretched out across the length of my body, pressing her nudity against my courtly dress. Her ass still blazed a crimson red, but she carried herself with dignity and pride. A princess does not crumble.  
   She slept, I think. Her breathing was calm and even. She hid her face in my chest and I got a mouthful of her rich hair. But I liked her hair. I believed I had liked it from the first time I saw it, but I might be wrong about that. This peasant woman, this princess, she enticed me. Enchanted me, even, perhaps. I caressed the muscles of her back, and as I did so I was astonished at the warmth of her body. She dared to fall asleep so very close to me. That's the sort of thing that is considered marvelous in my realm.  
   Perhaps she wasn't asleep after all, merely slumbering, for she whispered something into my chest. It was so very quiet and barely audible, but what she whispered was this:  
   “Thank you.”  
    I heard what she had said. My hearing is very keen. But silly as I am I wanted to hear her say it again, more clearly. I liked her voice. Maybe I had liked it from the first time I heard it, maybe not. Stupid me, I had to ask her:  
    “Did you say something?”  
   And she answered. Half asleep as she was, she must have made a mistake. This is the only explanation: she must have spoken lovingly but unthinkingly, half-dreaming. For she uttered:  
   “Thank you, Rumpelstiltskin.”  
   And then I vanished.


End file.
